‘Is the King not a man too, sire?’ Athénaïs said.
A murmur too low to hear. A sigh. A giggle.
‘Very fine brushwork,’ I said, edging closer to the alcove.
‘Yes. Um. Lovely colours,’ Françoise said.
‘You are mad,’ Athénaïs sighed. ‘Think what you do, sire.’
‘Yes, I am mad, since I still love you.’ The King stood up, drawing Athénaïs up with him. He bowed to the court, all wide-eyed and gasping with incredulous laughter, and hurried Athénaïs to her bedroom, where the door was shut tight and the curtains emphatically drawn. The little dog ran after them and scratched miserably at the door, whining, until the thump of what sounded like a thrown boot discouraged it and the dog lay down, nose on paws, tail tucked between its hind legs.
Françoise did not speak, her lips pressed hard together.
‘Perhaps a stroll in the garden?’ I suggested.
She did not respond but gathered up her dark heavy skirts with both hands and went out of the room. I followed, to find Athénaïs’s footmen distributing pineapple ices in the garden, where the scent of orange blossom and tuberoses hung heavy in the air.
When the King and Athénaïs came out, flushed and languorous, some hours later, it was as if the past fifteen months’ absence had never been. Athénaïs rode back to Versailles in the same carriage as the King and the Queen, and, soon after, a long baggage-train arrived carrying her dresses and jewels and shoes and fans and shawls and maids and pets, Athénaïs taking up her old suite next to the King.
The King was still the King, however. In the summer of 1676, the Princesse de Soubise caught his eye. Soon, she was to be seen hurrying through the dark corridors of the palace to the King’s apartments, a carelessly wrapped veil showing shining glints of her famous strawberry-blonde hair.
Unfortunately, the Princesse de Soubise was soon struck down with toothache and had to face the barber-surgeon, who wrenched the offending front tooth out with a pair of pliers. With a black gap in her teeth, the Princesse was not so attractive any more, and the King returned to a radiant and smiling Athénaïs, who soon proved her devotion to him by once again falling pregnant.
Then, in the early months of 1677, when Athénaïs was as big as the elephant in the King’s menagerie, His Majesty began a dalliance with one of the Queen’s maids of honour, Isabelle de Ludres. Nearly as voluptuous as Athénaïs – and six years younger – she caught the King’s attention while dancing the minuet with him, by the simple expedient of pressing close to his body and lifting her blue eyes to his.
Athénaïs was furious. She began a rumour that Isabelle was riddled with sores from the English pox. Isabelle tearfully begged the King to examine her from head to toe to prove she was free of any sores. An hour later, the King emerged, smiling, declaring her blemish-free. Athénaïs could no nothing but pace the floor and rage. ‘That sly, back-stabbing, upstart putain. I’ll show her! I’ll make her wish she’d never been born,’ she cried, both hands supporting her huge belly.
‘What will you do?’ I asked in interest. I was at court at that time with the Duchesse de Guise, who had come for Christmas and had been persuaded to stay a little longer by Françoise, who hoped for her help in breaking Athénaïs’s hold over the King.
Athénaïs cast me an irritated look. ‘Just wait till this baby is born. I’ll crook my little finger and the King will come crawling back.’
In early June, Athénaïs swept back to court, and Isabelle’s power over the King was suddenly and inexplicably broken. He had eyes only for Athénaïs, who leant her head against his shoulder at the gaming table and ordered a flurry of new gowns, a pair of dancing bears, orange trees in silver pots and a giant gilded birdcage to keep her turtle doves in.
‘He cannot even wait for us to undress her,’ Mademoiselle des Oeillets, one of her ladies-in-waiting, told me. ‘All she has to do is untie her bodice and he is upon her. He is insatiable.’ She looked away, her face hardening. ‘She knows he’ll take his pleasure elsewhere if she is not here, ready and waiting for him. He’ll not be denied by anyone.’
Desperately, Isabelle practised all her flirtatious arts, but it was as if the King did not see her at all. In September, she sent an unhappy message to the King, asking if she might retire to a convent. The King yawned and replied, ‘Is she not there already?’
After that, the King dallied with a young girl from the country, who fled back home in tears after a bruising encounter with Athénaïs’s wit; an English countess, who declared she found Versailles too stuffy after a week of enduring angry stares from Athénaïs’s blue eyes; and my own newly acquired sister-in-law, Mademoiselle de Théobon, who received such a furious letter from her brother that she left the court in some confusion, wondering all the while who had written to let him know.
It was me, of course, writing an account of court gossip to my sister, Marie, with the line, ‘Oh, la, have I told you Théobon’s sister has caught the King’s eye? I’m sure it’ll amount to nothing, though mordieu! There are more royal bastards littering this place than unwanted kittens now, and the King making no move to legitimise any except for the Torrent’s.’ (My sister knew that the Torrent was one of Athénaïs’s nicknames.)
Some may think it malicious of me to write such a letter, but I knew it would grieve my sister to have her young sister-in-law become the latest of the King’s mistresses and, besides, Athénaïs was not someone you wished to become an enemy.
Meanwhile, my own life was unendurable. The Duchesse de Guise would not permit me to leave her side. I spent all day standing on cold marble floors, my legs and feet aching, listening to her sour voice listing the faults of everyone I knew, except for the King, of course. Then all night I was expected to answer her every call, helping her to the chamber pot, rubbing her cold feet, reading to her from the Bible, fetching her a hot posset that she would then refuse to drink, complaining it was too hot or too cold, too spiced or not spiced enough.
Something had to be done. The next time we went to Versailles, for Easter in the year 1678, I went at once to Athénaïs’s apartment – a series of twelve rooms, each a symphony of pale blue and gold and rose, filled with the scent of fresh flowers, face powder and expensive perfume.
Athénaïs was lounging on a velvet couch, her swollen feet stuffed into a pair of high-heeled slippers. Her maid of honour, Mademoiselle des Oeillets, was curling her hair with a hot poker (and I’d always thought those ringlets were natural) and she was eating sweetmeats from a violet satin box.
When I had first met Athénaïs, she had been twenty-six and angelically beautiful. Now, she was thirty-seven and once again pregnant to the King. Her face was round as a wheel of cheese, and her blue eyes seemed to bulge above her plump cheeks. Her belly was so enormous she could have used it as a rather unstable table for four, and her cleavage was so deep she could have kept all the silver cutlery safely stored within.
She raised her eyebrows at the sight of me. ‘Charlotte-Rose. What an unexpected pleasure.’
‘I need to talk to you!’ I clasped both hands near my heart.
‘Always so dramatic. What’s wrong?’
‘I need help. I’m down on my knees and kissing your feet, metaphorically speaking. I will do so literally if you like, as long as you help me.’
‘Why, whatever is the matter?’
‘I cannot stand it any more. I’m a slave. The King might as well send me to the galleys. I’ll be in service to the Duchesse until I’m an old, old woman. My hair and beard will have grown to the floor and I’ll be bent in perpetual prayer, my back as bowed as that old hag’s. They’ll have to bury me kneeling.’
Athénaïs laughed. ‘She is rather pious.’
‘Pious! What a weak word. She’s not pious, she’s righteous, punctilious, sanctimonious …’
Athénaïs, smiling, held up one hand. ‘I get the idea.’
‘I will go mad if I’m to work for her any longer. She won’t go to the theatre or the ballet, she disapp
roves of the salons, she prefers Normandy to Paris.’
‘Indeed, a fate worse than death. My poor Charlotte-Rose.’
‘What am I to do?’
‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ Athénaïs answered. ‘You must marry.’
‘Who? Who would want me? I’m not beautiful like you, Athénaïs. No one wanted me when I was young and still a maiden. Who would want me now?’
I am twenty-seven years old, and I’ve already dragged my good name through the mud, I wanted to shriek. Instead, I composed myself and said, ‘I have no beauty, no dowry, no land. I have nothing but my father’s name, and even that I have disgraced. Who do you suggest I marry?’
She coiled one of her bright ringlets around her finger. ‘You may go,’ she said to Mademoiselle des Oeillets, who at once rose and backed out of the room. For a moment longer, Athénaïs was silent, her eyes fixed upon me.
‘I like you, Charlotte-Rose,’ she said at length. ‘You never try to steal the King’s affections or stab me in the back. Although you are quick and clever, you are not malicious. And your blood is as noble as mine. It makes me furious, seeing so many commoners at court, seeking to creep higher by winning the King’s good favour. And you could be useful to me, yes, indeed you could.’ She spoke these last words so softly I could hardly hear her.
I stood silently as she gazed at me, coiling her ringlet about her finger. She seemed to come to some kind of decision, for she dropped the curl of hair and leant forward. ‘I know someone who can help you, but you must assure me that you’ll tell no one about her.’
‘Who could possibly help me?’
‘There is always a way,’ she answered. ‘You will need money, but I can help you there, as long as you remember that you owe me loyalty and discretion.’
‘Of course.’
‘You must have a strong spirit and a strong stomach too,’ she warned me.
I thought she must mean the strength to cold-bloodedly marry a man I did not love, probably an older man with a drooping paunch and the whiff of decay in his mouth. I tried to smile. ‘Am I not called Dunamis?’
‘You must be sure that this is what you want.’
I huffed my breath out. ‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Of course you do,’ Athénaïs answered impatiently. ‘A young man of noble blood and good fortune, who knows the way of the court and will turn a blind eye to any affairs you have once you’ve delivered him an heir or two. Handsome enough that he does not turn your stomach, but not so handsome that he will treat you with contempt. Clever enough that he will not bore you, but not so clever that he will see through you. Rich enough to—’
‘Of course I’d like a husband like that. But where am I meant to find him?’
Athénaïs cast me an exasperated look. ‘The court is full of men like that, Charlotte-Rose. Take the time to look them over and choose one who you think will do. Pick one who is in favour with the King, if you wish to serve your family well.’ She spoke with a faint lift of her lip, for Athénaïs’s husband had been out of favour at court and she had had to rely on her own wiles to raise her family’s fortunes.
‘Oh, yes, a rich beauty like me can choose any man she wants.’
Athénaïs smiled. ‘Of course you can. Choose wisely, because once you begin you can’t go back.’
Curiosity was rising in me and a certain cold dread.
‘When you have chosen the man you want, then you’ll need something that belongs to him. A used handkerchief, a lock of his hair, some fingernail parings …’
‘That sounds like witchcraft.’
Athénaïs sat back, regarding me through half-slitted eyes. ‘Not at all. It’s just a little love charm. Would you not like to be married, with your own grand house and servants, a carriage and six, and as many gowns as you like? Wouldn’t it be sweet revenge, on all those who have mocked and scorned you?’
I hesitated. It would indeed be sweet.
‘And your days would be your own. You’d be free to do just as you pleased.’
The temptation was too much. Despite a hard lump of fear in my throat, I nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll do it.’
A LOCK OF HAIR
Versailles, France – May 1678
For the next week or so, I looked over the unsuspecting crowd of courtiers for a man I thought I could marry.
I was fastidious. One man was too corpulent, another too short, yet another ungracious when he lost at cards. One had an unpleasant odour I could not tolerate, yet another looked like a sack of potatoes in the saddle. I could only marry a man who could outride me.
He had to be clever (no matter what Athénaïs said), and he had to love dancing, and he had to make me laugh, and he had to be kind. My list of desires grew longer and longer, and the list of possible men soon had no names on it at all. Charlotte-Rose, stop being so finicky, I told myself. There must be someone who’s to your taste.
A hunt was organised for the following morning, the King’s huntsmen having spotted a brown bear in the forest. Bear hunting was considered grand sport at this time of year, when the hunting of most game was banned. Anticipating a grand chase through the forest, I dressed in my most dashing scarlet riding dress with a close-fitting hat of beaver fur. I could not afford my own hunters but was able to borrow a horse for the day – thanks to Athénaïs – a tall strong gelding with rather a wild eye.
‘Are you sure you can handle him?’ the groom asked as he lifted me into the saddle.
I hitched my knee over the pommel and straightened the folds of my skirt. ‘I certainly hope he puts up a good fight,’ I answered, touching his flank lightly with my whip. The gelding snorted and pranced. Both the groom and I smiled.
As I trotted out into the courtyard, filled with horses and men and dogs, I felt someone’s eyes on me. Glancing around, I saw a square young man with a wig of rather military cut, its long curls tied back with a green ribbon to match his coat. He sat astride a very beautiful roan mare, with a finely bred head and beautiful lines. What I wouldn’t have given for a horse like that.
Our eyes met and he smiled. I felt my cheeks warm. I was not the only woman to ride to the hunt, but the others were all either mounted on fat old nags or were seated in a horse-drawn buggy, prepared to follow the hunt as best they could on the country roads.
The King rode out, resplendent as usual in a feathered hat, an elaborately curled wig and a greatcoat embroidered all over with gold and crimson.
The horns sounded. The King led the way, his favourites clustered about him. I waited for them to be well on their way before allowing my impatient horse to follow. The man in green had waited too. His roan mare was close behind me as we rode out, both horses fretting at the bridle, wanting to gallop.
I let the gelding have his head as soon as we reached the road. He was fast and powerful, muscles moving under grey skin like satin. I could have sung with joy as we raced along the avenue of trees, the wind sharp enough to burn my cheeks. I heard hooves hammering fast behind me and half-turned my head. The man in green was close on my heels. I laughed and leant forward, gathering my reins tighter. At once, the gelding lengthened his stride. Clods of earth flew up from his hooves. The parade of poplars flashed past, bright green leaves gilded with sun. I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms and rode blindly, my body rocking easily with the thundering motion of the horse. Against my closed eyelids, warm light and cool shade flickered.
‘Do you always ride with your eyes shut?’ the man in green asked me, as the horses gathered in a clearing at the outskirts of the forest. The chief huntsman was examining a trace of bear droppings under a tree, the dogs whining and straining at their leash.
‘Not always,’ I answered. ‘Not if I was racing cross-country.’
‘You race often?’
‘Not as often as I’d like,’ I sighed. The Duchesse’s idea of exercise was a slow promenade around the rose garden. I had not ridden once since entering her service.
‘We should have good sport today,’ he
said.
I smiled. ‘I live in hope,’ I answered over my shoulder, turning to join the chase again.
The horns rang out and the dogs were belling. We raced a good course, down a long valley with plenty of fallen trunks to jump, and then a wonderful gallop along the ridge. Ahead, I heard the roar of a cornered bear. I reined in my horse, coming into the clearing carefully.
A shaggy brown bear was held at bay against a stand of beeches by a pack of barking dogs. A row of huntsmen with spears closed in around it. I was surprised that the bear was not bigger. It was only a head taller than me and looked rather cross-eyed. A dog rushed in and closed its jaws upon the bear’s flank, and the poor beast yowled in pain.
I turned my face away and saw the King sitting on his black stallion nearby. He was smiling. Spurs glinted on the heels of his boots, and his stallion’s satiny sides were torn and bleeding. The bear roared in pain as one of the huntsmen skewered it with the heavy spear, its end braced into the ground. Another spear was thrust into its soft belly, and the bear rocked on its feet. It swiped out, sending another dog flying. Then a third spear was thrust through its throat. The bear fell heavily, blood spraying across the grass. A huntsman ran forward and drove a spear down through its shoulder, pinning the beast to the ground.
The King held up his hand. At once, a servant stepped forward with a mounting block. The King stepped down, fastidiously straightened the embroidered cuffs of his greatcoat, then held out his hand. A carving knife was ceremoniously placed in his palm. He sauntered over to the whimpering bear, dropped to one knee and ritualistically slashed at the bear’s throat till the head rolled free. The King then stood, holding high the severed head, careful to hold it away from his body so the dripping blood would not stain his satin breeches. All the courtiers cheered and congratulated him heartily on his skill, his courage, his valour. The King smiled and inclined his head, dropping the bear’s head in a sack.
‘Would you like a drop of Armagnac?’
I turned to see the man in the green coat holding out a silver flask. I smiled rather mechanically, and took the flask and held it to my lips, tilting back my head so I could drink deeply. The liquor seared a golden path from my lips to my gullet, and then spread a warm haze all through my body.